The Male Order Affair
by girl in the glen
Summary: The Russian is missing, along with the formula for a deadly virus.  The trail is too cold for Napoleon, deadly cold for Illya.  The story has been revised from its original posting.
1. Chapter 1

Napoleon Solo arrived at his destination with two men, two UNCLE agents. They had been led here by the signal from a homing device implanted in Illya Kuryakin's hip before he left New York. Just beyond this location, the signal had dropped off, but up until then, everything had pointed to this exact site. After that, there had been complete silence.

Thinking that perhaps something was blocking the signal, Napoleon had engaged Section IV to look for possible jamming devices. It would explain the sudden disappearance of the transmission; it would give Napoleon something to grab onto besides the pessimistic voice that whispered _'Illya is dead'_.

There were no towns in this region of Caiuba, a small emerging country where the trees probably outnumbered the people. The little clearing in which he now stood, Napoleon noted, was a respite from the forests that ran headlong onto a rocky coast; this was the site of an old, abandoned settlement from the looks of it.

Situated within this clearing was a rustic structure, the only visible end to their search. Napoleon's approach to this place was halting, a visceral reaction to what he feared he would find within the old, derelict building.

It was a foul odor that greeted Napoleon and his men, causing each of them to subdue a gag reflex before continuing on with handkerchiefs across their mouths. Rooms were searched with the aid of lanterns in the dark interior as the three of them split up and took different directions. Each one was intent on a single objective_: to find Illya Kuryakin_.

Napoleon approached the second doorway and peered in cautiously. He thought there was an eerie quality to the room, as though time had somehow stopped. A lone figure was curled up in the corner, a shock of light hair barely visible. Napoleon was very aware of the tension in his body as he drew near to the still form that was only a silhouette against the lantern's light.

With an aching resolve to not react, Napoleon stooped down to lay his hand upon a shoulder of the fragile looking form. It had been two weeks since they'd last heard from Illya Kuryakin, and the road to finding him had been harrowing and costly. Two agents had died in the process; something that the Russian would not have asked of them.

"Illya…'

Napoleon spoke gently at first, almost as though afraid to awaken the man.

"Illya…?"

Raising his voice, Solo nearly choked on the name, his fears of the worst not far from the surface.

Apprehensive and still hopeful, Napoleon gingerly turned the body towards him, and looked into the face of death. A small gasp escaped his throat, revulsion at the decay beneath the remaining mop of dirty, blond hair.

"_It's not Illya…" _

The words were spoken to no one, to himself and to whatever capricious gods looked over the exploits of spies and fools.

A sob of relief escaped as the American sought to handle the confusion, and now this discovery. Illya wasn't dead; at least not here, not in this cell. Napoleon Solo got up from the crouch he'd assumed. He didn't know who this man had been, but it wasn't his partner.

A voice disturbed the scene as Napoleon's two companions came upon him.

"Napoleon…?"

He heard his name, but finding a level of control with which to face his agents needed a few seconds more; just…wait…

"Yeah, Ned…I …'

Solo let out a sigh; it was impossible to hide his relief. These men already knew what it meant to lose a partner, and were the remains of what had been a six man team. Their battle with the Thrush contingency had been brief but deadly, costing the lives of two of their own.

"Okay, Ned…let's see what else we can find here in this building. We know it's not defended by anyone…no signs of anyone very recently from the looks of it."

If the trail the UNCLE agents had been following was on target, Napoleon estimated that Illya hadn't gotten out of this backward country before being overtaken by a second, as yet unknown adversary; Thrush wasn't the only enemy. Someone else wanted a piece of the action, and Illya had the plans for it. The Russian's last contact with Waverly had been two weeks prior to this moment. Not only was Illya missing, but also the information he had _liberated_ from Thrush.

Napoleon let his gaze return to the body he'd mistaken for that of his partner. Whoever this man had been, his last few hours must have consisted of torment and…

Napoleon knew that he couldn't let himself travel too far down that road. If Illya wasn't here, then wherever he was would be even better equipped for torturing a man into telling everything he knew, or wished he knew_. What Illya knew_ had deadly potential for millions if the wrong people extracted it from him.

"_Where are you Illya?"_

The words were spoken like a prayer, and Napoleon wished fervently that his partner could hear him.

Looking around him now, Solo was more acutely aware of the decrepit state of the building they were in. The walls were cracked with age, and the floors merely a nod to the need for them; mostly dirt and bits of rock here and there formed a crude base to the rooms. Small windows let in a minimum amount of light, and not much air to speak of. Solo's eyes scanned his environment as he sought for some sign of life.

"Hey, Carl, did you see anything like a bathroom or kitchen, provisions maybe? Anything at all?"

Carl Pearce was a tall and imposing man. As an agent, Napoleon had found him to be steady on the job, reliable and professional, even after the loss of his partner.

Pearce answered the senior agent, motioning down the hall as he did so.

"No, there's nothing like that in here. But, if you'll follow me…'

Carl headed down a narrow corridor, indicating to his superior that he'd discovered something else of interest.

"If you look in here, I think you'll see why there's nothing fit for living in this place."

The two men ducked slightly as they passed through the small doorway, only to be assaulted by the source of the foul stench they'd remarked on earlier. Napoleon was almost thrust backwards by the repugnant odor, and his speech was halting as he gave words to the reaction.

"It's … Wow, it stinks in here worse than the rest of this place."

Carl Pearce nodded and turned his head as Ned Keegan came in sight. The other man had the same reaction to the smell as had Napoleon before him. His exclamation mirrored the thoughts of the other two men.

"Good God! What is this place?"

The three agents stood a few feet apart from one another, their attention now riveted on the pile of skins that lay on the floor of this new room. While they all three avoided taking deep breaths, Carl answered:

"I think it's probably a tannery. Long abandoned for the purpose, probably, but what else could it be to have all of this in here?"

Napoleon had a fleeting thought as to what type of skins they had discovered. The idea that these were something other than animal made him sick, the possibility that Illya had ended up here…

Carl spoke up again, diminishing the bizarre scenario playing out in Napoleon's mind.

"I think these are probably goats. Well, they were goats, by the looks of them. My Taid, um grandfather, was a bit of a tanner in his day. We never had anything this rough, though; this place must be older than dirt."

Napoleon and Ned both breathed a little sigh of relief, immediately regretting it as the lingering stench filled their mouths as well as nostrils. Once again, Carl led the way as they exited the tannery, offering his opinion of the place and its purpose.

"I'd say this was merely a stopping point before heading to a more permanent location. The poor sod in there, well… I'm glad it's not Illya. Truly, Napoleon, I'm glad for you both."

Carl was originally from Wales, although his accent had mellowed through a decade of living in New York. A soft burr now rode beneath the harder edges of his newly acquired American accent, causing a new ache of anxiety in Napoleon as he thought again of his partner.

"Yeah, you must be right. I'm guessing it was just a temporary holding spot for whoever that is in there, and possibly…'

A sigh escaped Napoleon's mouth as he considered the plight of his friend and partner

"…possibly for Illya. Any indication of where they might have gone from here?"

Ned and Carl replied in the negative. At this point, they were without a clue as to where the Russian might be.

The only thing Napoleon knew for a certainty was that a deadly virus had been developed by Thrush, and would affect only male children. How they had isolated that group was a mystery to the American, but something that his scientifically trained partner probably understood with little difficulty.

Napoleon conjectured that Illya had memorized whatever information he found, since his meticulous partner would not be likely to leave a paper trail. The idea that there was a third party about, some other group wanting the information now held by the UNCLE agent, made the situation that much more critical. Illya would not divulge what he knew. The question remained, how long this new group of antagonists would wait before they killed Kuryakin because of his obstinate resistance.

Illya Kuryakin woke up in a cave of some sort. Either that, or someone had found a dungeon with similar characteristics, judging by the dampness and hollow sounds of dripping water. There were rocks at his back and he was stretched out on ground that felt sandy, gritty. A trickle of light was coming from somewhere, but in the daze of being drugged and physically hammered by some very capable brutes, his ability to discern his location was slow to engage.

Somewhere distant he heard voices, low and angry sounding he thought. Anger could go either way.

More immediate concerns emerged as cognition slowly returned. Illya had been stripped down to his jeans, and it was cold and very damp. Cold enough that his Russian blood warned of consequences should the temperature drop much lower.

"Forty degrees, in case you're wondering."

The voice came from across the cave, and Illya strained his neck to look up from his position on the ground.

"I thought I felt a chill."

The voice chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

"Yes, I imagine you do, Mr. Kuryakin. Perhaps that chill will help to persuade you to tell us all that you know about the formula you so carelessly destroyed."

Illya was shivering from the combination of damp and cold. He was hungry as well, remembering his last meal; a small bowl of miserable soup given to him by a Thrush guard.

"I fear my memory is not what it used to be. Cold and hunger tend to dull my senses considerably."

If he could just sit up and get his blood moving again. Illya tried to change his position and gain some visual on the voice, but a spasm of pain held him in place.

It spoke again, that mysterious voice, but it did not yield to the Russian's complaint.

"You will need some more time, I take it. Very well. You might be more inclined to talk to me when you truly yearn for some warmth for your body and food in your empty belly. We will deal with you, Illya, before we let you freeze to death. I suggest you talk before it comes to that."

Illya heard footsteps softly retreating. So, this is how it is to be.

"_Napoleon, where are you?"_

The words were spoken like a prayer, and Illya wished fervently that his partner could hear him.

_**Hypothermia is most likely at very cold temperatures, but it can occur even at cool temperatures (above 40°F) if a person becomes chilled from rain, sweat, or submersion in cold water._


	2. Chapter 2

The chilly air was of only slightly less concern than the messenger he'd just encountered. Illya didn't know who these people were, and yet they knew him; fairly well, if the tone of the conversation were any indication.

Illya's arms ached from being held behind him for what must be hours. He had a vague memory of being in that unpleasant place with the foul odors. Someone else had been there, a blond man…

Joseph Farina. He was Thrush, and they had killed him, he was certain of it. The man hadn't known the formula or the codes indicating where it would be released, so they had killed him.

_I know. I know all of it. I suppose it will perish along with me when I finally die from exposure and starvation._

He hadn't eaten in days. With a metabolism like his, that could mean real trouble when combined with the threat of hypothermia. No food, no water, no heat…

"_No Illya."_

The sound of his voice in the still of this icy cave produced another round of shivering.

Napoleon was waiting to hear back from New York on the possibility of a jamming device nearby; if one was located, then they would have little trouble finding his partner somewhere within range of it.

Ned approached his boss, each of them a victim of the emotional toll this mission was taking. A Thrush bullet had killed his partner, Casey Reardon, on day three of this affair. They had been so close to finding Kuryakin, or at least thought so. Instead, what they encountered were the remains of a Thrush contingency, still holding down what was left of the satrap the Russian had found. Carl's partner, Johann Burgh had also been cut down in the gun battle. The original six-man team was now only three; the satrap was destroyed, but the object of their search, Illya Kuryakin, still remained in the grasp of a third, unidentified group.

The Intel was practically nonexistent regarding this new threat, and yet had successfully derailed the most nefarious group of megalomaniacs on the planet, and snatched UNCLE's number two agent. That was quite an impressive feat for an organization that had snuck onto the scene anonymously. It might be large, or merely a few individuals. To have overcome Kuryakin, though, indicated some kind of talent at work.

Ned spoke up, stirring Solo out of his gloomy thoughts.

"Napoleon, any word yet?"

The American shook his head, weariness creeping into the usually unaffected man. Under most circumstances, he could endure a variety of hardships and still look unscathed by his surroundings. Now, with this situation, the hours and miles were telling.

"I expect there will be something soon. If there is something blocking communications, then…"

As if on cue, Solo's communicator signaled to him.

"Solo here…"

"Yes, Mr. Solo…'

The familiar and comforting tones of Alexander Waverly invaded the somber environs in which the agents found themselves.

"I'm here, sir. Do we have anything useful, or helpful from Communications?"

"We do, indeed, Mr. Solo. Approximately 2 miles from your location, on the northernmost face of that coast, there is a very definite jamming device in operation. Nothing is going in, or coming out of its sphere."

Napoleon grinned, cautiously; the news was good so far.

"That's excellent, sir. We should assume that Illya is somewhere within that grid of activity. We will leave immediately, if you'll just have Communications forward us the location…''

"No, not just yet, Mr. Solo. There is a tactical element here that we must address. Mr. Kuryakin is in possession of some extremely dangerous information. That formula was destroyed in the labs you have only recently left behind; our clean up crews ascertained no indication of any remaining logs or samples. We believe that the virus was never actually produced, only formulated."

Napoleon winced visibly, the two other agents noting the tone of Waverly's voice, and recognizing what must come next. Was it possible that Kuryakin was now considered a liability?

"Sir, I'm not sure I understand what it is you're…"

A long pause was unwelcome at this juncture, but present nonetheless.

"Mr. Solo, you and your team will proceed to the location of this jamming device, but you will not immediately go into this lair of what is, it seems, a new enemy. You will wait for reinforcements."

Napoleon was seething inside. This was not another case of being expendable; it wasn't acceptable to leave Illya there, possibly hurt and most certainly in danger.

"Sir, how does it benefit us to _not_ go in after Illya? He's not given up the formula, we can be assured of that. Illya won't…"

A harrumph of displeasure came through…

"Mr. Solo, I am not asking you for advice or even agreement to my methods. You will not go in until reinforcements have arrived. Is that clear?"

The two other men in the room held their breaths until Napoleon replied; the unthinkable act of abandonment accompanied by their own recent losses was crushing to them.

"Yes. Sir. I do understand. Will there be anything else, sir?"

All pretense at agreement was gone, merely the contested act of obedience remained.

"I will give you over to Communications, now. Waverly out."

The ensuing information gave a definite point of origination, which meant the three men could easily go in and rescue Kuryakin and, most probably, put an end to whoever had taken him.

Carl spoke up first, his confusion at their superior's orders in conflict with his own sense of duty.

"Why do you think Waverly is doing this? What possible reason could there be to not go in and just clean out the place?"

Pearce had lost more than a partner with the death of Johann Burgh. The man had been like a brother to him; more than that, if possible. Seeing Burgh fall to a Thrush bullet had nearly killed him as well. Now, looking at Napoleon and understanding everything he was feeling, it was difficult to imagine being this close to Illya's location, but forbidden to go in and get him to safety.

Napoleon attempted to reply without intoning the bitterness he felt.

"I don't know. But, _ours is not to reason_…"

He left it to just hang in the air. The unspoken quote so often bantered between Illya and him no longer held any amusement or even truth.

_Do or die?_ They weren't doing either, and yet Illya was probably in danger of death if they didn't go in there… Meeting the need for leadership, Napoleon stood and reaffirmed his stature as Chief of Enforcement. His men needed that from him.

"Let's head out to this location, and perhaps by the time we get there, Waverly will have either changed his mind or be willing to tell me what's really going on."

Carl and Ned were ready to go on Napoleon's command; whatever he decided, they'd back him up on it. Two men was already too high a price, and losing another one wasn't an option. No matter what the old man said, there was now an unspoken agreement that when the time came, the three of them would do whatever was necessary to get Solo's partner out. Hopefully, it wasn't too late.

Napoleon visualized his friend and called out to him, mentally willing Illya to know help was on the way. He didn't give a damn what Waverly wanted; no way in hell would he leave his partner to die as long as he was close enough to save him. And they were _so close_. It would be two miles through a dense forest, situated on a cold slab of land in the North Atlantic. It was time to move.

Napoleon took the lead as he and the other two agents began their journey through the forest, heading north, towards the coastline of this northern fjord. The terrain was uneven and rocky, finally giving way to the treacherous cliffs that faced out over a forbidding descent into icy waters. This region was a sliver of neglected land, as yet unclaimed by more powerful neighbors. That time would come, but for now its primary importance was tied to the search for Kuryakin.

Solo spotted a trail of some sort that looked as though it were cut by hand; it was more than likely a pathway down to the place they sought. Pausing to let the others catch up to him, he played over the situation in his mind. It was still difficult to believe that Waverly wouldn't allow them to go in, which led Napoleon to wonder if there was more to the intelligence than had been revealed.

They would need to rappel down the face of this cliff, and deal with whatever they encountered. There was no visible landing spot, nothing beneath them except the water of this inlet, long ago carved by glaciers and time.

Napoleon needed to figure this out. He spoke as fast as his brain could spin out ideas.

"Caves. It must be a cave system. There's no other way."

Napoleon figured there must be another way in besides scaling down the face of this cliff. If they got to the opening, he and his men would be easy targets for whomever they encountered. It wasn't a good plan, and he began to reason with himself about Waverly's insistence that the three agents wait for back up.

Carl and Ned nodded in agreement. There was no one better in the field than Napoleon Solo, and they would follow him wherever he led.

Illya Kuryakin heard something reaching out to him, a voice…_that voice_. Illya recognized the sound of his unidentified host, and shook his head to try and loosen the web of crystals that he imagined were forming around his brain. Even if they didn't let him freeze to death, he doubted whether he could summon up the information they sought from him; it was becoming difficult to remember why he was even here.

The taunting voice was shrill amidst the glacial surroundings. It was obvious, even to the faltering Kuryakin, that hospitality was not a facet of this person's agenda.

"Illya, are you hungry yet? Really hungry…"

The Russian couldn't discern hunger anymore. He was cold. Cold and sleepy; he doubted he would be able stay awake any longer. The voice should try and help him stay awake, perhaps then he would get his appetite back.

Once more the voice invaded Illya's icy cave. The voice sounded very far away, as though it were spanning a very large room.

Or perhaps a glacier, he thought. Illya was part of a glacier, probably, soon to be encased in ice for eternity.

Kuryakin didn't respond to the voice. He could no longer speak, it seemed. His mind tried to coalesce his thoughts into something verbal, but his mouth refused to utter the replies that lingered on his tongue. Too sleepy, too cold…

Another voice called out his name, and this time it seemed familiar, comforting.

"_Illya? Can you hear me?"_

There, in the distance, very far away.

Alexander Waverly was tired. He didn't often admit that, not even to himself. His decision making was too often tinged with regret these days, and as an old war horse, that was unacceptable. The information carried by Illya Kuryakin could ruin the population of the planet, something the Russian had known going into this affair. The unfortunate circumstance of his being in the hands of hostile forces changed the tactics necessary to contain this new threat to humanity. Kuryakin knew the score, understood the risk every time he left this office, and destroying the formula and those who would use it was paramount here.

There was nothing to be done about it now, the UNCLE chief wearily reasoned, and the young man was, he repeated to himself unconvincingly, expendable.


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon was embroiled in an internal conflict that threatened to undo his most precious commodity: his word.

The Chief Enforcement Agent of UNCLE Northwest had told his boss, Alexander Waverly, that he would wait for reinforcements. Now, standing above where he believed his partner was being held, Napoleon was unsure if he would be able to keep his word to the old man. It was too much to ask of him, and the other men on this mission would agree if the decision was made to go on into the enemy's camp.

"Ned, how long of a drop do you estimate it is to the opening below us?"

Solo had an idea of it, but confirmation in this situation was critical. Ned peered over the rock ledge from the only vantage point he could manage; it wasn't much but they were in a precarious location.

"It…ouch…um…it looks like about thirty feet, Napoleon. There is a ledge that appears to have some type of weaponry mounted. If there are guards there, well…"

Ned let that trail off, not certain how he wanted to finish it. Napoleon didn't like the sound of it. They were in a dangerous spot just being here. Superior planning would have kept them farther back and out of sight. He winced at the lack of self-control in his quest to rescue Illya. Mr. Waverly would not approve.

Carl, who was holding onto Ned's feet as an extra precaution against falling, began to haul the other man back into a safer spot. All three men retreated to the trees behind them, maintaining at least a modicum of coverage and stealth. They each wondered silently if the enemy had already spotted them.

Beneath the imposing landscape and deep within the cave, Illya had succumbed to the freezing conditions and was completely unaware of the men who hauled him up from his icy cell. The Russian never felt the rough treatment as they transported him to the new, warm surroundings that would greet him upon awakening.

Kuryakin was of no use to this group unless lucid and able to give them the information he had so completely obliterated. The threat of freezing had not worked, so perhaps a modicum of kindness and a good meal would be more persuasive. It had taken the Russian agent hours to yield to the freezing temperatures, and a few hours more for him to revive would be permitted.

Illya was dreaming of snowflakes and forest creatures all in varying shades of white; he was surrounded as they circled in a type of dance. Music accompanied the odd characters; the melodies written by a Russian composer whose name didn't immediately come to mind. It was not unpleasant any longer, and the warmth was melting the vision, slowly, as consciousness returned.

"So, Illya, you have decided to come back to us. You are more comfortable, I hope."

It was that voice again, the disembodied sound of an enemy. It was a familiar voice, with a deeply intoned British affect that was a reminder of something…

Illya didn't open his eyes completely; the light an abrupt interruption to what had been a serene interlude from the turmoil of the past fortnight. He needed to see who was speaking, but the memory of it was enmeshed among tattered images of Thrush and water, secret documents and Waverly himself. Nothing was clear or concise, yet.

The touch of a hand on his face startled Illya into total awareness. Opening his eyes he looked up into the face of a man he knew, but up until now had never feared.

Three UNCLE agents huddled within the shelter of the forests' edge; the final glimmer of sunlight long past, the evening was fully upon them. It would be cold tonight, and reinforcements were not anticipated until dawn. If Napoleon had any intention of mounting an assault before then, it would need to take place sometime after midnight, he reckoned. Coverage within the cave compound below them would most likely be more relaxed during those hours _before_ dawn, possibly allowing them the opportunity to surprise whoever was in there.

As Napoleon considered his options, they came down to two likely scenarios. He and his two agents could rappel down into the opening of the cave, completely surprising the enemy and risking everything in that one encounter. Or, they could continue to search during the night for what must exist: another entrance.

Napoleon felt certain now, that Waverly's plan was going to be a frontal assault, via helicopter, to gut the interior with a barrage of incendiaries and firepower. Illya would be killed along with everyone else inside. Solo's stomach twisted as he considered that probable course of action; it was unacceptable, regardless of the amount of regret it would engender from Waverly. Napoleon could rescue his partner and destroy this group, he was certain of it. What he couldn't do was watch it play out without an attempt to rescue Illya.

Napoleon, Ned and Carl discussed their options briefly, and agreed to mount the search for a second way in. Doing it in the dead of night held obvious disadvantages, but they were countered slightly by the sheer lunacy of it: who would suspect a search in the dark?

There was a trace of moonlight illuminating the UNCLE agents as they began their search. Napoleon cautioned Ned and Carl against utilizing the small flashlights that each man had in his backpack. The object of the search was an opening that would take them to the caves beneath them. Napoleon was certain by now that an easier way in could be found, and that those who occupied the hidden fortress would not depend on the cliff face for their entry. Vigilant for any sign of sentries, the three agents began their meticulous search, slowly and diligently examining every tree and rock, the ground beneath them and even an occasional bush.

By midnight, there was a dense fog to further complicate the situation. Napoleon was about to yield to frustration when he ran headlong into a large boulder that was partially hidden by low brush and a slight stand of trees. Carefully examining the surface with deft fingers, it took only a few minutes to discern a continuous crack that framed what could easily be a door. Whether a lack of security or an abundance of confidence in this subterfuge, Napoleon cared little. He had what looked like his answer.

Napoleon whistled, a sharp and impressive imitation of a seagull, the agreed upon signal. Ned and Carl heard it and made their way back to where Napoleon was standing by the newly discovered entrance to the caves below.


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon Solo had found the opening he sought. It was a hewed stairway to the cave of the enemy; the enemy who had his partner. With flashlights and guns both in hand, the three agents began their descent into the darkness. It was a narrow passageway, and they climbed down steps that belied their location. This was quite an endeavor to have undertaken, and Solo tried to imagine what sort of organization had planned this, succeeded in taking down a Thrush satrapy and captured Illya Kuryakin.

After what seemed to be about a fifteen foot drop, Napoleon could hear sounds coming from somewhere in the distance. Voices and machinery echoed against the hard rock walls, and the sound of dripping water increased even as the cold did. This was not a place to be without an ability to keep warm, which meant some type of system had to be in place. This was a well conceived hideout.

The men remained silent, motioning in the dim light toward the bottom of the steps. Napoleon spoke first…

"All right, this must be the entrance. We'll need to move in quickly and quietly. The first order of business is to find Illya, because he _is_ the mission now. One at a time, try to stay out of sight if possible. If necessary, take out anyone who gets in your way. Silencers on…"

Ned looked at Napoleon and Carl, a question unanswered hung in the air.

"Do we use sleep darts or live ammo?"

Napoleon understood, and UNCLE policy usually dictated mercy before eternal judgment of their enemies.

"Waverly plans on annihilating this place. Unless we plan on carrying out the ones we would dart, then I believe that their fates are sealed. They should have thought twice about what they were signing up for."

It wasn't as harsh as it sounded, but Napoleon was never happy with the thought of casualties. He didn't take death lightly, even among his enemies.

"Are we ready?"

Ned and Carl nodded. They were as ready as they would ever be.

"This is it, then. Let's go."

All three men crept out into the rocky corridor, Napoleon in the lead and Carl facing to the rear. Ned was vigilant as he scanned each nook and crevice, seeking the communications center they hoped was here.

A man appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, prepared to raise an alarm. One shot from Ned's silenced gun ended the threat, and the three moved on. Carl noted a wire running along the ground; he signaled to Napoleon with a snap of his fingers.

"Yeah, Carl?"

Napoleon hoped it was some sign of Illya, but instead he saw Carl tracing the wire back to a small nook in the rock. They'd missed it somehow, but now the wire was cut. Whatever it was for, it was now no longer functioning.

Ned was the first to see another hostile, and with one motion he had his gun up and firing. The man went down before he knew what hit him.

Napoleon didn't feel confident of anything right now, but there was still hope for finding his partner. Two men down and no one else in sight made him wonder just what type of operation this was.

The new room in which he awoke was a welcome relief to Illya. No longer half naked, he was bundled in a sweater, warm socks and a wool blanket that was tucked in around his body. Something else was exerting pressure, but he hadn't identified it yet.

It was still a cave, and the rock walls dripped with the ever present moisture, a contrast to the warm air that was blowing out of a portable heater situated in the center of the room.

The voice came with a face now; a familiar face, much to Illya's chagrin. He had never liked the man very much, but seeing Brian Morton here, under these circumstances, chilled his recently warmed blood.

"So, Illya Kuryakin, you can now tell me all of your secrets. The first one I need is the Thrush virus that will forever change the face of the male population on earth."

Illya stared back at Morton, the incredulity of the situation still forming around his brain; a brain that was only now beginning to snap back into focus.

"I am unaware of it. Perhaps in your move to the dark side, the information given you was in error."

Brian Morton laughed, that peculiarly snide affect that betrayed his upper class origins. He had been only marginally dedicated to UNCLE, a contradiction certainly. The last straw had been Waverly sending him to the northernmost reaches of the earth as a consequence of his unfortunate affair with that Thrush bitch.

"Illya, old chap, we both know you're lying. I am only too well aware of what has been going on in that Thrush lab I recently had destroyed. And, don't feign indifference. That won't work on me."

Kuryakin's expression remained impassive, partly out of habit and also because he really had suffered from the cold. He realized now that being tucked in so tightly was also limiting his ability to move freely; launching himself into the oversized Brit would have been a strategic move otherwise.

"Brian, I find it hard to believe that you have been so easily provoked into this venture. UNCLE will not let you succeed, regardless of what you do with me. I am…"

Morton snorted, the subtle smile returning to his face.

"Yes, expendable. We were always, all of us, expendable. Well, I'm not. Not any longer. I make the rules now, I'll marry whomever I choose, and will be made a rich man in the process. This formula is the ultimate threat to mankind in its ability to alter the Y chromosome. I dare say, even Waverly will pay me a king's ransom for this."

Illya was stalling for time. Morton wasn't a madman; he was bent on retaliation against Waverly and UNCLE. And, even though Thrush didn't appear to figure into this revenge as much as Brian's former employer, the destruction of the satrapy had been fairly complete. Morton also knew enough about the Russian to understand that Illya would have memorized the formula before destroying it.

"I think I may be ill. Is it possible for me to get out from here, stand up and try to ease the symptoms?"

Brian looked at his prisoner, considered whether or not Illya was truly ill or simply trying to outmaneuver him.

"I will let you out of your cocoon, Illya. But if you try anything, you're going back to your previous location. You're no good to me if you don't talk, so whether you freeze or not is entirely up to you."

Morton motioned for one of his henchmen to come and remove the blankets, unfastening the tethers that had been holding Illya down to the table. It felt good to move around, although he didn't dare do much more than stretch. Morton had two other men in the room with them, and both appeared ready to attack at any provocation.

"Thank you, Brian. This seems to help, although…"

Illya feinted to his left, as though he were going to throw up, but in that motion was able to take down the first man who then tumbled into his fellow guard. Morton was taken by surprise, and only managed to avoid being at the bottom of the pile by throwing himself out of the way and onto the floor.

Illya made quick work of the two underlings, dispatching them with a quick chop behind the neck of the first, and a decisive blow to the other man's right jaw. Both were out by the time Brian Morton had raised a gun and leveled it at Illya's midsection.

"Nicely done, Illya. I expected no less, although it does put us in rather a spot now, doesn't it. You will, of course, surrender."

Illya had other ideas, however, and none of them included surrender. A sudden surge of intolerance for Brian Morton and all of his kind rose to the surface, propelling the smaller man into his captor as he funneled the entire breadth of his dislike for all things upper class.

There was a fury in Kuryakin's dive as he sent Morton sprawling back against the rock wall. Illya heard the sound of bone on rock, a grunt of pain from the Englishman and then it was over. Brian lay sprawled on the cave floor, a trickle of blood spreading beneath his head.

"I'm truly sorry, Brian. You should not have turned against what is right."

Illya let that sentiment linger for a few seconds before collecting himself and his wits. He needed to get out of this cave. If Waverly held true to his convictions, something they had discussed before Illya started on this mission, then destruction was probably not far away. The downed guards didn't wear uniforms, but they did have on something geared to the climate. He was able to remove a sweater from the smaller of the two men, donning a jacket as well from the back of what had been Brian's chair. It was too big, but that was unimportant. He mainly wanted to look as though he belonged in this frigid cave.

Boots…Illya had been wearing boots…

_"Ah, there you are."_

He located everything he needed, including his gun and communicator. Brian had not been able to undo his UNCLE training, and all of the confiscated equipment was neatly arranged atop the desk in this makeshift office.

Illya opened the door, careful to lock it as it shut. No point in some nosey guard discovering the bodies. From where he stood, there were two corridors visible. Choosing which one to take was a matter of chance at this point. As he imagined the flip of a coin, at which he called tails, the pfft of a silencer got his attention. Who would be shooting at …?

Not willing to make himself a target, Illya eased himself along the corridor from where he'd heard the sound of the gun. This cave didn't allow for hiding places, at least not along these passages, but what he hoped to find made him less wary, especially since there was not any return of fire.

At the end of the rock wall, Illya peered around it and down the more narrow section of the passage. All of the adrenalin in his body had rushed into action during the altercation in Brian Morton's office. Now that he could see his partner, the steps taken by the weary Russian seemed lethargic and halting.

Carl spotted the blond, clapping a hand on Napoleon's back as he shouted Illya's name.

"Illya. Hey, Napoleon, look!"

Napoleon did look up at that. He stepped over the man Ned had shot with a quick twinge of regret that was soon overshadowed by the sight of his partner.

"Illya, hey!"

Illya had turned the corner and suddenly gone limp. It was as though every bone in his body turned to rubber, and instead of a triumphant entry, he stumbled on a displaced rock and fell headlong into Napoleon's outstretched arms.

"Hey buddy. We've really gotta stop meeting like this."

Illya shook himself, regaining his footing in time to look into his friend's face and measure the relief there. _And, something else as well._

"I see you've arrived again _after I have rescued myself_.''

It was a ploy for composure, and each man breathed a little easier at the ability to crack a small joke, even though it spoke of how close things were going to be.

"Now, what else? You look as though you're in a hurry."

Ned and Carl were watching the reunion, measuring every minute against the timetable they knew was being maintained by Alexander Waverly.

Napoleon nodded and pointed in the direction from which they had come. He took Illya by the arm and forced him into motion behind the other two men who had already begun the trek back out to safety.

All four men were jogging through the cave, aware of a noise that sounded like an approaching helicopter as it reverberated through the stone walls. Napoleon was urging his men upward as they climbed into the stairway.

"Waverly has set this place for destruction. He intended to eliminate the threat of anyone ever utilizing that formula. I don't think he was very optimistic about you surviving, especially if you didn't talk."

Illya was moving as fast as his hindered limbs would take him. The effects of the hypothermia had not been as evident when cocooned inside of the wool blanket in Brian's office. Now that he was draining all of his reserve strength, Illya wondered if he might need to stay behind so that the others could keep moving; he couldn't let his friend, his comrades, sacrifice their lives for his.

Napoleon could see the effort it was taking for Illya to keep moving at their accelerated pace. He would carry his partner if it came to it, but he wouldn't leave him behind. Solo knew the Russian too well to not be aware of how the man was thinking.

"We'll make it, Illya. I'm not leaving you behind, not after violating Waverly's orders to go in after you."

Illya couldn't reply, he didn't have enough breath to move and talk. He did take note of it, however. He owed it to his friend to not die, it seemed.

Ned was the first man up and out of the subterranean stairway. He pulled Carl up and then helped Illya as he climbed out, all of his energy spent from the uphill sprint. As Napoleon emerged, all four men were moving through the forest and as far away from the cave region as they could travel. The helicopter carrying the deadly payload was directly in front of the cave opening by now, and Napoleon was on his communicator, hoping that the wire Ned had cut was to the jamming device.

"Open channel D, this is an emergency. Solo to Waverly."

"Mr. Solo, where are you?"

"Sir, we have Illya, we are clear of the caves and trying to get well clear of the area. I repeat, sir, Illya is with us."

"Hrrumph…I see, Mr. Solo. I will instruct the pilot of the helicopter to stand down. Waverly out."

Napoleon slowed down, signaling the others to do so as well. Illya practically dropped in his tracks, while Ned and Carl each took an arm to ease his descent to the now safe ground. Napoleon finally took a breath, relief and satisfaction all evident on his face.

Epilogue

Alexander Waverly had his two top men in front of him. Ned and Carl had been congratulated in nearly the same breath as condolences were offered in tribute to their slain partners. The chief of UNCLE Northwest dismissed them, assuring them that there would be plenty of work yet to come, and suggesting they consider each other as new partners. It wasn't a suggestion open to speculation.

Illya and Napoleon sat at their usual spots at the big round table that served as the old man's desk. The discovery of Brian Morton's scheme had shocked Napoleon more than it had Illya. Mr. Waverly seemed to take it in stride. It would be impossible to say whether or not he had suspected the Englishman of treason, nor would he ever confirm or deny it.

"Mr. Kuryakin, it is fortuitous that you were able to extricate yourself from the confines of Mr. Morton's schemes. I trust you have reported to the appropriate people, and divulged yourself of this reprehensible formula."

Illya looked rested, and his face had resumed its normal, expressionless façade. The episode with Morton had been disconcerting, and he still wondered at the man's defection to criminal behavior.

"Yes sir. The information is being used to construct an antidote, just in case Thrush had records of it elsewhere. I will be undergoing hypnosis in order to 'lose' it. It seems best, sir."

"Yes, indeed. I am happy to hear you are not requiring me to mandate it, as it were."

Napoleon listened without comment; his knowledge of the entire mission had been limited. Now that it was over, he wondered about a few things.

"Sir, what exactly does this virus do? I have never been given the complete overview on this affair."

Illya looked at his boss, and upon the nod from Waverly, he embarked on an explanation of the scientific properties involved in the Thrush formula.

"And, so Napoleon, the Y chromosome would be altered to the point of changing the nature, literally, of…''

Napoleon put up a hand, bowed his head slightly and then shook it.

"Are you telling me, that this would change…would alter…? I don't believe it."

Illya merely looked at his friend, still without expression.

"It is true, Napoleon. Within a few generations, we might have a completely androgynous species. It is the perfect situation for a narcissistic society. It would suit you perfectly, I think."

Napoleon blanched at the prospect, but noted the slight quirk of a smile on Illya's face.

He didn't believe a word of it.


End file.
